


now is the start

by ronsenburg



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, M/M, Pre-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 23:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronsenburg/pseuds/ronsenburg
Summary: Ignis wakes one morning to the sound of Prompto cooking and realizes that, perhaps, their developing relationship has changed him more than he expected.





	now is the start

Ignis wakes in the early hours of the morning to the unmistakable noise of pots and pans clamouring together from the kitchen.

It’s a familiar sound, one Ignis often creates when rummaging through the cabinet in search of a specific dish, but is unsurprisingly jarring when floating from under the closed door of his room as he lies sleeping in bed.

He stirs, uncharacteristically disoriented, and glances at bed beside him. It’s empty, the only indication of another occupant the slight, head-shaped impression in the center of the pillow and the rumpled sheets that seem to have been carefully pushed aside.

The sun has already risen behind the blinds of his window, throwing pale light across the room in alternating slats of light and dark. And while it is most certainly his bedroom, it seems different now in a way that Ignis cannot place.

He pauses, staring at the pillow through a furrowed brow for a long moment.

When he emerges from the bedroom several moments later, pulling a shirt over his head and running a hand through sleep disheveled hair in a vain attempt to tidy it, he finds Prompto at his kitchen island, so deep in concentration as he works that he doesn’t seem to notice Ignis.

For a time, Ignis stands in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of Prompto’s knife as he works at slicing a bowl of mushrooms. He’s chosen the wrong knife and his grip is too low on the handle to achieve the kind of control Ignis would prefer, but the fact that he is standing there at all is surprising in itself. 

When the knife stills, Ignis clears his throat gently, and Prompto looks up with a slightly sheepish smile.

“Oh hey,” he greets, and though his eyes are still heavy with sleep and his hair is standing on end in even more directions than usual, his tone is so bright that Ignis can’t help but smile in return. “Didn’t mean to make a mess of your kitchen. Did you want to, uh-?” he asks, offering the handle of the knife in his hand out to Ignis.

Ignis shakes his gently and turns, busying himself with measuring out the correct amount of coffee beans from a canister on the counter. The sound of Prompto’s knife resumes as he does, the rhythmic chopping more confident and consistent with each stroke. Early morning light streams through the open windows with a gentle fall breeze, sending the steam that rises from the bubbling coffee maker curling in soft puffs across the stove towards Prompto before it dissolves into wisps of warm air. The smell of fresh coffee follows, filling the kitchen as Prompto reaches for one of the frying pans, placing it on the stove and humming softly under his breath as the stove lights with a series of mechanical clicks.

Ignis watches from across the kitchen, struck suddenly at how different the apartment seems with Prompto in it. Despite the fact that these rooms are his, Ignis spends very little time here, most of his days partitioned evenly between the halls of the citadel and behind the wheel of a car. Often enough, he returns at night only to pour over any remaining documents at the small desk in the corner or to fall into bed before waking the next morning to repeat the process. As such, the apartment lacks personality; Ignis imagines it must appear sterile and unyielding, everything in its precise place. 

Or rather, it had been before.

He glances at the shoes left haphazardly in the center of the hallway, at the jacket flung over the back of the couch where it has likely already wrinkled. His glasses and gloves are placed at random upon the coffee table, joining a small collection of Prompto’s accessories- a bright white belt with tiny skulls set into the buckle, two studded bracelets that had caught on the fibers of the couch when Ignis had pressed his wrist against it, an asymmetrical vest.

Weeks ago, he might have felt compelled to straighten and organize.

He turns back to Prompto instead.

“I wasn’t aware you could cook,” Ignis offers, leaning a hip against the counter next to the coffeemaker and watching Prompto empty the contents of his cutting board into the pan. The mushroom slices sizzle softly as they spread across the hot metal surface, assisted in their dance by the gentle prodding of Prompto’s spatula.

“Maybe if you ever let someone help,” Prompto teases, glancing back at Ignis with the corner of his mouth angled up in a crooked smile that manages to seem impish and affectionate in the same turn. The sight makes Ignis hesitate, caught momentarily off-guard by the sudden and rapid beating of his heart. Prompto has already returned his gaze to the stove, however, laughing as he continues, “Nah, I can’t really. Not like you.”

“You seem to be doing an admirable job,” 

Prompto shrugs, “I picked up a few things up over the years.”

His tone is light, but when their eyes meet again- this time with Ignis’s eyebrows raised slightly in question- there is some emotion hiding behind the blue of his eyes that is impossible for Ignis not to notice.

Careful observation over the course of several years had revealed just how easy to read Prompto can be, his emotions flitting across his face like words on a page despite the ever-present smile. As if realizing, he turns to the cutting board again, his gaze resting on the brilliantly colored pepper that sits on the surface as he chops the ends off with forceful swipes. “Well, my parents weren’t around much,” he says, eyes trained determinedly on the path of his knife instead of Ignis’s face, “I had to eat somehow, you know? Take-out burgers got old after awhile.”

Ignis watches the side of Prompto’s face carefully as he speaks. “I see.”

“You can ask about it if you want.” Prompto continues softly, still staring at the edge of the knife.

And for a moment, Ignis considers.

There is a folder tucked away in a drawer in his desk with Prompto’s name written out in neat letters at the top. Inside is a series of papers, a list of details and facts compiled by agents of the crown that, when read, tell the story of quiet and lonely life. But, in the end, they are only words written in stark, detached ink. How did the timid boy described in that file become the vibrant person who stands before him today? Whose enthusiasm and joy for the smallest details of life seem so contagious at times that Ignis finds himself humming Prompto’s little songs under his breath long after the other has gone? 

Ignis finds that he would like to know.

But Prompto glances at him, his face full of uncertainty, and Ignis feels a sharp tug from somewhere in his chest.

“Can I help?” Ignis asks instead and Prompto’s face lights up with obvious relief. He nods vigorously and reaches for the spatula again, placing it in Ignis’s outstretched hand before tipping the contents of the cutting board into the pan. The soft sound of peppers frying fills the air

Ignis turns toward the stove, his arm brushing against Prompto’s shoulder gently as they stand side by side. Prompto glances up at him again, a small and grateful smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

From outside, Ignis can just barely hear the sound of birds calling in the light of the new day. 

Perhaps knowing Prompto now is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, please feel free to come hang out with me at my [tumblr](http://ronsenburg.tumblr.com/) where I spend the majority of my time crying quietly over how much I love promnis.


End file.
